He was sitting outside the drugstore one day when I came to pick up my medications.  His hair was a matte of thick dredlocks, his clothes were gray with a layer of dirt, and his teeth were crusted with layers of rot.  He held a cardboard sign that said, “Homeless.  Anything helps.”  I’d say that he was probably only in his thirties. 

I decided to take a detour and ask him if I could get him anything. He asked for a liter of Pepsi and some Doritos.  I went in and picked out the Doritos, but the mother in me couldn’t stand the idea of feeding him with junk food and couldn’t resist the temptation of adding a turkey sandwich.  I handed him the bag, threw a brief “God Bless” at him and got back into the safety of minivan.

Even so, I knew that I hadn’t done anything of real value.  It nagged at me that I had just slung a bag of goodies at him and hadn’t connected in any real way.  I decided then and there that if I ever saw him again, I would ask him his name. 

I got my opportunity.  So, I swung by again and asked him what he would like, and he asked for a liter of Hawaiian Punch.  I asked him if that was all, and he paused, thinking, “Yeah, maybe some peanuts.”  I laughed a little, smiled at him, and said, “Okay.”  It seemed odd to me that although I was offering to pick up anything in the store, all he asked for was a liter of Hawaiian Punch and peanuts.

I filled his order pretty quickly and then picked up my meds, and stepping back into the California sunshine, I went over to him and handed him the bag.  “Here you go,” I said. 

“Thank you and God bless you,” he replied. 

Before my courage left me, I asked him his name. 

“Bruce,” he answered.

 “Well, Bruce, I am pleased to meet you,” I said, and I offered my hand and told him my name was April.  I was uncomfortable and nervous, and so I couldn’t do anything but retreat.  I turned and started back to my vehicle.  I passed a woman who must’ve seen our interaction as she walked out of the store.  She had a curious smile on her face, but I didn’t bother to analyze it.  I just got into my car because my knees were strangely shaking.

You see, for me it had taken courage for me to offer a hand to Bruce and to ask his name.  To offer a hand is such a small thing and I have done it easily with so many people, but it was harder this time because Bruce isn’t like me.  It would have been so much easier to walk past, but lately I have something inside driving me to break through the barrier between me and people like Bruce.  I can’t be like the rich man who stepped over Lazarus the beggar.  I have to keep stopping and keep connecting until it starts to feel normal.  Part of me wonders when I will finally shed this cloak of fear that I wear whenever I step outside of myself.  I have worn it my whole life, and God has been trying to show me how to peel it off, layer by layer.  It’s a slow process, but maybe like the bloom of a flower–the slower it opens, the longer the emerging flower will last.

“The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But well take our chances
Because God stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all God’s children
Crept out the back door.” George Michael, “Praying for Time”